I've made the strangest stew from the black beans and broth from the collards I cooked last week and sweet potatoes and corn and onions and garlic and tomatoes and venison sausage and the leftover pesto pasta from last night. I've made a loaf of bread and artichokes are cooking.
I feel like shit. Tired and achey and a bit anxious and yet, it was a good day. My boys were fine and good and sweet and they played in the water wiggler toy outside and then came in and took a very long shower and set the bathroom afloat and giggled and shrieked and used half a bottle of the new body wash I'd just bought and when I took that away, they played with a bar of soap and my god, they should be clean.
"Did you cry this morning when you went to school?" I asked Owen.
"Hardly at all," he said with a swagger. He also told me he hugged a girl named Clare. This caused him some agitation, telling me that.
"It's okay to hug people," I said. And then, because I am a nosy old granny I said, "Is she pretty?"
"So pretty," he said. And then he swung from his Tarzan rope and made his Tarzan yell and his jeans almost fell off of him and he and Gibson and I all laughed together and Maurice observed us cooly from the grass a few feet away and the chickens did not seem to care at all.